You are Anon Anonalewsky, former… let’s just call it a “bug tester” for HasBio’s toy division. Ever since numerous government agencies decided to chew into their asses for “the negligent creation of a sentient invasive species,” HasBio started handing out pink-slips to everyone but the lead scientists, their assistants, and the legal teams keeping them from oblivion. Not to worry, though! It was only a week and change before you found yourself at a new research firm: one of HasBio’s more independent subsidiaries.
At the interview, they explained their mission statement: developing effective means of reprogramming problem fluffies. While you worked for the company, seeing “how the sausage was made” spoiled your desire to own one; the smell of feces, their constant high-pitched baby talk, and… well, “bug testing” usually meant doing some pretty disturbing shit. Still, you know them well enough that they put you in charge of a small project.
First day on the job, and your new lab is a fucking mess, in the metaphorical and literal. Held in a 20’x20’ pen are fifteen smarty friends. How can you tell? They are all screaming, fighting, raping and projectile shitting at each other in a mad scramble to develop a hierarchy. On one wall are cages, all with harnesses, ear buds, and small flat screen monitor. To your right, an examination table with all the tools needed for dissection, a collection of clearly labeled drugs and a small chart for their usage in this test. The others store the common tools of fluffy care, including a particularly rich chow provided by HasBio, and you’re glad that your only duty is strap them into the harnesses, give them their injections, and observe how they take to it.
“GOOD FLUFFIES WILL LOOK AT ME!” you intone loudly, the smarties all locking their eyes on you. While they were cleaned and inspected before being approved for lab tests, they are obviously feral; little scars, the hostility towards anything their size or smaller, all underfed by HasBio’s health standards. Only a muffled ‘enf enf enf’ and the screeching of a fluffy in mid-ass rape breaches the awkward silence… before all of the smarties decide to begin their script of how ‘dis SMAWTY WAND NAO’ and threats of ‘bigges’ owwies.’ You ignore them, circling the pen to the bit of the ol’ In-Out-In-Out. Blood and shit stain the belly of a vibrant orange and blue maned unicorn, still thrusting into his sobbing, unfortunate victim.
You don’t wait for him to finish, grabbing him by the back of his neck, you bring him over to the exam station. He thrashes as wildly as he can, the little shit bleating “Bad uppsies! No feew gud feew yet! Dummeh munsta wet go ow get soww-” He doesn’t get to finish as you squeeze him over a shit can, repeating the process until the torrent of feces turn into mere drops of brown liquid. His tone has changed entirely, “Why huwt fwuffy? Fwuffy nu wan mowe squeezie-poopies!” he begs as you set him into onto the counter, putting a marinara-flavored treat down next to him, taking your notes while he’s distracted by it. Ear tag reads A-13, and you smirk at how unlucky this little bastard is to be the first subject. First things first, you fetch one of the modular harnesses and strap him into the light frame, not to say that he cooperates. Long finished with his treat, he immediately starts making demands, “More sketti tings ow bigges’ sowwie poopies! Wan gud feews, put fwuffy back wif enfie fwiend!” cheeks puffed out and stomping the table.
Of course, this little rapist is in no room to give commands as you turn him by the aluminum guide rail atop the spandex harness, pushing a jet injector to his… you look back at the poor little unicorn, the only fluffy crying instead of shouting at you for the treat you gave A-13 or to let them back to their herds under pain of whatever ‘fowevew sweepies’ are. With a grin, you set it against his anus and pull the trigger; for a human, it’s like a punch in the arm but for a fluffy, he may as well have been shot point blank with flaming rock salt. He screeches, anus distending as it tries to eject waste that isn’t there. His other piping works, dousing the exam station in fearful urine, and you regret your moment of well-meaning sadism.
Behind you, the other smarties suddenly aren’t so sure of their own safety, their demands a little less assertive as A-13 clicks into place, and cue up his little show. Beethoven’s 9th can be heard from the little ear buds as fluffies begin to frolic on the screen. “Huu huu, why hewt bes’ fwuffy…? Pway…? Pwetty mawes an’ fiwwies!” A-13 remarks, fluffy genitals reinflating as his stubby legs wiggle in air. That completed, you mark the time down on the cage and start going about the process of putting the others in their harnesses. Their bravery, as you are well aware, extends only as far as their ability to make demands or discourage action with spraying crap on any resistance or beating them down with leathery marshmallow hooves. Naturally, you have no problem; their tone always changes when they’re locked into their cage. After washing your hands, you have a seat at the monitoring station and wait for the drugs to kick in. On the linked monitor, you see that the subjects are watching what amounts to a fluffy grindhouse film: it’s all sex, violence, and all the shitty things they do to each other, shot either normally or through an unobtrusive GoPro for a first person view.
At first, your audio feed is all good times and promising mares best ‘special huggies’ and the other stallions on the screens ‘worstest owwies,’ but this changes as A-13 starts to experience the effects. You click the Picture-In-Picture so that you can observe the stimuli and his reactions. His smile fades and his frenzied humping at air slows as he starts to feel a little off. His eyes dart around the screen, “…oooh, tummy haf owwies… no wan mowe… hewp? Meanie hoomin, hewp? Owwies! hork Tummy haf owwies! Make sicky wa-wa! hork” You grin, knowing that no matter how sick he feels, he’s not going to vomit; a mild paralytic has stilled that reaction, along with the otherwise hyperactive defecation that makes fluffies famous. “Nuuu! Nu wan mowe huwties! Nuuuu! Dummeh hoomin! Hewp fwuffy!” he cries, eyes watery with tears as he continues to heave.
It isn’t long before the other smarty friends add to the cacophony screams, retching, and pleading to be released. This is all very fun, but meaningless if they can’t interact normally with each other. Before you took over this trial, you were told by the project lead that these tests were going to use smarty friends exclusively, as paragons of everything awful in fluffy nature. Cranking the Beethoven a little louder on your end, you watch as A-13 is reduced to chirping and wretched dry heaves as the show moves on. Later, you’ll see how they interact with each other, post aversion therapy.
You return from a long lunch, spinning in your seat as the lo mein and egg rolls settle into your stomach. The monitor remains locked on A-13, the ass-raping smarty friend that unwittingly volunteered to go first in some experimental aversion therapy. The first subject continues to chirp between sobs and violent bouts of dry heaving, but to be fair, pretty much all of them look at the breaking point of the fluffy mind. Back when you worked for HasBio proper, you were the one holding the hammer(both metaphorically and literally), testing how much trauma a fluffy could take before they regress to basic infant programming.
There’s no guilt in your chest for these little shit-rats. Normally, you don’t mind fluffies, albeit with zero desire to keep on yourself, but smarty friends are a different story. Not content to fuck up their own lives, they rope impressionable ferals or runaway pets of any age, usually to a messy end in some abuser’s basement or backyard. As the embodiment of malignant idiocy, they get none of your mercy.
Except, of course, when the experiment demands it. Roughly an hour has elapsed, and while any psycho can put a smarty friend into a wan die loop, the goal is to make these smarties behave, and it’s time to call it a day. You cut the feed, but every smarty on hand is too far in the hole to do anything but tearfully chirp and try to vomit as you remove them one by one. Even though you hate their behavior normally, when a smarty can’t even muster speech and desperately hugs your hand, they seem like any other fluffy you’ve put the metaphorical thumbscrews to.
Slowly they start to return to normal as you call the care ‘specialists’ to attend to the needs of your test subjects. Wanting to gauge the recovery time, you continue to watch. A monochrome white unicorn, ear tag reading A-1 uneasily gets up, ambling towards you, “Huuu, Wawter wan go back… nu wan sickie feews… Wawter sowwy! Wawter jus wan go back wif hewd, meanie mista! Nu make bad poopies ow take hoomin nummies!” You look down at your notes: positive reinforcement is discouraged in this group.
Sighing, you bend down and flick him hard on the snout, a little bead of blood starting to flow, “You are here because you are a bad fluffy. You became a smarty friend, and that is what bad fluffies do.” He puffs his cheeks, a little of his bravado returning in the face of such ‘ill-treatment’ but quickly backs down.
Clearing your throat, you address the entire group, “Who here is still a smarty friend?” Weakly, every fluffy that’s not chirping like a blind foal responds, not exactly feeling well enough to make threats. As the specialists place to more insensate subjects into their cages sans harness, you continue, “Smarty friends are bad fluffies. You feel bad because you are bad fluffies, and it’s being smarties and doing what smarties do that makes you bad.”
The protests are immediate and loud as when you first came in. Unfortunately, with the nausea still present and the drug’s other effects wearing off, much of this noise is choked with sprays of watery vomit and bile. “N-nuu am bad fwuffy!” complains a blue and yellow fluffy, “Bawwew am bes fwuffy! Haf bigges hewd and wots of speciaw fwiends! You am dummeh munsta!” The cheers are fleeting, as A-6 or ‘Baller’ is challenged.
Red fluffed and white maned, an earth type with an A-4 ear tag aggressively waddles up to A-6, ready to put a hoof in his face. “Nuuu! Fwuffy haf best an’ bigges hewd wif wots of mummas an’ babbehs! 'Ou am dummeh fwuff and wook wike bwue poopies!” Before violence can break out, the handlers separate the two, stuffing them into their appropriately numbered cages. They already begin to whine and cry, “Pwease no mowe sowwy box! Fwuffy nu want sickie feews!”
You frown, but this is to be expected; the project is more aimed at having the fluffy associate such misbehavior itself with the intense nausea and fear caused by the [REDACTED] injections. The mere threat of more time in the ‘sorry box’ still seems to quiet dissent, but you know tomorrow they’ll be back to their wretched little selves tomorrow. Further aversion therapy sessions are quite obviously needed.
As anticipated, every last one of them is screaming and shitting when you enter the next day, blowing their asses out at the door as you enter. As insulting as this is, you are far out of range of even the most pressurized fluffy colon. From now on, the fluffies are in for daily therapy instead of the original schedule you had planned. Once again, you single out the ones who misbehaved most. Going numerically, A-4 bites your gloved hand as you draw him from his cage. “Smawty want downsies! Dummeh meanie hoomin get bigges owchies!” he squeaks out, producing a squeal of agony after the jet injector thumps a mix of [REDACTED] and vitamins into his side. A-4 thrashes in your grip, “Why huwt fwuffy?! Nu wan sowwy box! Be gud fwuffy!”
Lacking a name, you can’t really discern if this smarty is actually lying; when the average fluffy pony is being insincere or attempting to lie, they’ll often refer to themselves as “fluffy” instead of their name, but it doesn’t really matter. You hold the injector in front of the weeping fluffy’s eyes, “This is my sorry gun. Good fluffies sit still.” Not wanting more pain, A-4 stays still as he’s strapped in for another session. A-6’s behavior isn’t much better, attempting to douse you in ‘sorry poopies,’ but the opening volley when you entered has left him only with watery dregs. Learning from your mistake, putting him into the harness first cuts down on the struggling until you’ve given him his medicine. Still, you’re thankful your first step is always squeezing out the colons into the garbage.
A-13 scrambles for the door as soon as he’s able, landing on the floor with a muffled crunch. “OWWWWIIIIEES!” he screams, escape attempt stopped cold by the drop. You remark that even as far as fluffies go, this one gives up easy as he only curls into a little ball of orange fluff. You aren’t a veterinarian, but it is your concern that your test subjects not expire too soon, and a short text is sent to the on-site vet. For him, the experiment has halted until he receives medical attention, but that likely means he’s merely getting the shot last.
You move on, letting A-13 cradle (and immediately recoil in pain from touching) his injured limb, asking “Why weggy huwt fwuffy?” As expected, not a single one takes his medicine gracefully, but as much as amputees would make the whole process easier, it may taint the results. You’ve clicked A-15 into place by the time the vet enters, smelling less like a doctor and more like burning meat and hair. “What the hell have you been doing?” you ask, eliciting a sigh from the man as he starts examining the injured A-13.
The vet’s attentions are quickly noticed and amid the fluffy’s screams as the burly man feels the wound, he explains what the other testers are up to. “Well, both of the other labs are dealing pretty heavily in electricity. You know, trying to exploit the reset button,” calmly speaking even as he’s setting a splint on A-13’s foreleg, “Attrition’s high enough that management’s worried they’ve hired a guy that’s just fryin’ 'em for kicks.”
“Why huwt Cheetoh?! Fwuffy nu mean tu faww, onwy wan huggies!” cries A-13, and you’d reprimand the handlers for naming him if it didn’t mean you now had a cheat sheet for when the little turd was lying.
After he finishes up, the vet helps you put A-13 into a harness, and asks “So what’re you doing? Injecting them with a serum to turn 'em gay or something?”
You shake your head, “Aversion therapy. The rest is all secret, have to kill you if I told you, etc. Thanks for fixing his leg; I know giving medical to smarty friends is like pissing in the wind but…”
He laughs, setting his small box on the exam table, “Hell no, where do you think I get most of my practice? Feral herd ambles up, I snatch their smarty up for dissection, and give the neighbor’s kid a quarter for every one he can drive over the fence.”
“Drive?”
“Kid’s a hell of a golfer,” he remarks with a grin, showing a short video he recorded. Sadistic as that seems, it’s too funny not to chuckle at a puffy-cheeked ‘toughie friend’s’ battered head sailing over a white picket fence, and the kid’s good enough to drive a chirping foal off of a squirming, crying mare’s fluff without pulping her spinal column. He checks a message, “Ah hell. Another reset experiment went pear-shaped. Just keep that one off his splinted leg, and it’ll be fine.”
You wave as he leaves, wondering what kind of shit they’re up to in the other labs as you sink into the office chair. Just like yesterday, they stare weeping as they’re forced to stare wide-eyed, chemically sickened and terrified, at all the darkest aspects of their species. As you pour another cup of coffee, a thought strikes you, and you’re gathering supplies from the medical closet.
Admittedly, this goes far beyond your mandate, but personal curiosity isn’t something you’d like to suppress. As noisy as dropping the little devices you have on the exam table is, not a single fluffy can look away from the screen thanks to the harness’s stiff collar. You get everything ready, and approach the cages. Poor little A-13 sniffles and retches, “Huuuu-huuuu! Cheetoh no wan watch enfie babbehs no mowe! Wowests tummy huwties suu bad! Huu… wah!”
The surprised fluffy is gently placed on the table and you give him a treat to keep him quiet… at least until you are shoving the eye clips in place. “Owwies! See-pwaces nu fo’ touchin’, dey fo seein!” and only squeaks in pain again as you push the IV in place. You click him back into place, and begin writing notes on your secondary test: What happens when a fluffy is subjected to the therapy at all waking moments?
